221B: Branches of Ash
by Shira Lansys
Summary: 221 Sherlock/John drabbles, done in the 221B drabble format. Because the subtext in Sherlock means that these drabbles almost write themselves. Rated for possible smut in certain chapters. COMPLETE
1. Return

Title: Return

Rating: K+

Wordcount: 221B

A/N: So, a few months after I decided to write them, I'm finally beginning to post these 221B Sherlock drabbles. These will mostly be about Sherlock and John and the (mostly imagined) relationship between the two, but there'll be gen as well, and drabbles that focus on other characters. Feedback is appreciated, but not as much as the enjoyment you get from reading these!

* * *

When Sherlock appears in front of John for the first time in three years, unnecessarily proclaiming that he's alive, he receives a bleeding nose.

It isn't the first time that John has punched him (although it is the first time Sherlock hadn't expected it) and, if Sherlock is honest with himself, he wouldn't even mind if it isn't the last time he receives a bleeding nose by John's hand. Because John punching him means that he is alive, and that John's alive, and that they both know it.

This punch is, however, the first punch that's followed by tender ministrations, including tissues, Dettol, and a small, gentle kiss of apology that makes Sherlock's physically painful return to 221 B Baker Street _completely _worth it.

"If you kiss me every time you punch me," Sherlock mumbles incoherantly through the wad of tissues still pressed to his nose, "then I might have to give you reason to punch me more often."

"I'll have to remember not to make a habit of it, then," John says, but his voice is only a little frosty. "For your own sake."

And Sherlock smiles, because it's this exchange that tells him they'll be okay. John's lips twitch upwards too, and Sherlock knows that John knows. Sometimes it's hard, but you can always fix things that are broken.


	2. Bisexual

Title: Bisexual

Rating: K+

Wordcount: 221B

* * *

It was a _very _rare day that John managed to do anything that took Sherlock by surprise. (Unless it was when he was angry at Sherlock for leaving fingers in the butter – again. Apparently it was incomprehensible and unreasonable for someone to be annoyed by body parts in their food.)

It was for this reason that John allowed himself a brief, self-satisfied smirk when the man he'd taken to bed last night wandered down the stairs in nothing but a towel and planted a gentle kiss on the back of John's neck. His (lover? Fling? One-night-stand?) might have thought that he was the cause of it, but John and Sherlock both knew that John was actually pleased with the _taken aback_ expression that had briefly flashed across Sherlock's face.

At least his flatmate had the decency to wait until the man had left before he confronted John.

"Not straight, then?" Sherlock flashed across the room as the sound of the front door clicking shut reached their ears.

"Bisexual," John said, unfolding the paper. "Thought you'd know, of all people."

Sherlock was uncharacteristically silent. No, he hadn't known. He'd thought John's attraction to him had been new to his flatmate, and that had been the reason why John hadn't made a move.

Who would have thought that John _knew _he was bisexual?


	3. Won't Give Up

Title: Won't Give Up

Rating: T

Wordcount: 221B

A/N: This drabble accompanies the Sherlock/John music video that I made. If you want to check it out, the address is www. youtube. com/watch?v=Q7sCScQvoZU (without spaces)

* * *

John sighed as he entered the flat to find Sherlock sulking on the couch, pointedly not looking at him. He considered saying something, but decided there was no point and headed to the fridge instead.

It turns out that was just as pointless as speaking. When he returned to the living room it was with a biscuit that was so stale he suspected it'd been there since before he moved in.

"I'll understand if you want to terminate the relationship," Sherlock said dully.

John almost spat out his biscuit in surprise. "What?" he spluttered.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't move out, but I realise you might want to," Sherlock continued.

"Woah, Sherlock, hold up," John said, trying not to panic. "Who said anything about breaking up?"

"I assume that's what will happen," Sherlock replied, deadpan.

"Sherlock," John said slowly. "It was just an argument. It doesn't mean I want to break up with you."

"It doesn't?" Sherlock asked, sounding slightly baffled.

"No," John said. "It means that I walk out, come home hours later, we talk, and then we have fantastic make-up sex." His tone turned more serious. "Sherlock, we'll probably have lots of fights. But I promise I won't just give up on us."

"Really?"

"Really. Now come over here. I want to have make-up sex with my boyfriend."


	4. Ashes In His Hands

Title: Ashes in his Hands  
Rating: T  
Word count: 211B  
A/N: Thanks to tardisbroomstickfire who reminded me that I have readers waiting for these drabbles. I'm sorry I forgot.

The world turned dark and grey, on the day Sherlock Holmes died. John's happiness turned to ashes in his hands, and he clutched hopelessly at his fast-fading sanity. Mrs Hudson was the only one he had left, now that _he _was gone, but she could only watch as the knife that was John's loss was driven further and further into her tenant's heart.

Mycroft watched too, but only ever from the safety of his security cameras. Other than offer John the most expensive psychologist in Britain, there was nothing else he could do.

Sherlock didn't watch. After the day by the graveside, he fled the country. His return wasn't going to occur for a long time, not until he'd been forgotten. Just a few years.

Perhaps he shouldn't have stayed away. If he'd returned just a day earlier, if he'd thought to pop in on John just once before fleeing again, then maybe things would have been okay. He should have taken John with him, to all those foreign countries while they waited for London to forget.

He should have done any one of those things, but he didn't. Instead he waited a day too late to come home.

If he'd done things differently, then maybe he wouldn't have come home to a pool of blood and John's stiff, cold body.


	5. Moron

Title: Moron  
Rating: T  
Word count: 211B

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was a genius, Greg knew. His mind flew at a mile a minute, working in ways the average man couldn't even contemplate. He knew more about forensics than most people who had degrees in the subject; could solve a problem faster than the most expensive supercomputer; and could tell how many women a man was sleeping with by the mud found on the sole of his shoe.

No one who met Sherlock Holmes was ever in any doubt that the man was one of the most intelligent people on the face of the planet. His amazing mind, however, was not all it was cracked up to be, Greg thought to himself. Because, he'd observed Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson for many months, and watched them dance tentatively around each other, both of them being so careful to not cross the invisible line Sherlock had drawn between them. They'd take turns looking at one another, and only just miss catching each other's gaze. John would compliment Sherlock, and somehow miss the flush that rose to the other man's cheeks at the praise. Sherlock, meanwhile, never saw the commendation for what it really was.

Sherlock Holmes might be a genius, but when it came to matters of the heart, he was a complete moron, no matter how amazing his brain.


	6. Bluebell

Title: Bluebell  
Prompt: Bunny (Thanks xNomii)  
Rating: K+  
Wordcount: 221B

* * *

"Sherlock, there's a rabbit."

"I know, John."

"It's on our kitchen table."

"I know, John."

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Why is there a rabbit on our kitchen table?" John asks, very calmly.

"I believe you two are already acquainted."

John looks very confused at this. "What? No we…"He trails off mid-word as a though strikes him. "Bluebell?"

"Well deduced, John."

John strolls over to the table, where Bluebell happily sits munching a carrot that Sherlock had thoughtfully left for her. He thinks idly that perhaps he should put Bluebell on the floor; he's not really an expert on how intelligent rabbits are, and he doesn't know whether Bluebell would survive the long fall to the floor if it turned out that she wasn't too stupid to jump off the edge.

At least she looks happy, John thinks. Sherlock can't have done anything too horrible to her yet, then. "Sherlock, I'm not comfortable with you bringing live victims in here for your experiments. Corpses? Yes. Body parts? Yes. Innocent rabbits? Definitely not.

"Relax, John," Sherlock says in a bored voice. "I'm going to take Bluebell back to her owner. That's what I was employed to do."

"Wait, so you broke this rabbit out of a military facility just to give it back to a child."

"Stop calling her an 'it', John. Her name's Bluebell."


	7. Lockpicks

Title: Lockpicks  
Rating: M  
Wordcount: 221B

John threw back his head and began to move his hand faster. He would have closed his eyes in pleasure, but they were still glued to the computer screen, on which two girls were having a _lot _of fun together. Thank god for laptops and locked doors, he thought to himself. However did he survive the teenage years without being able to take porn to his bedroom?

He bit his lip as he began to get closer and closer to the edge; he had a terrible habit of making embarrassing noises when he came. And while he was sure that Sherlock knew (or would know) what he was doing even without him moaning, it was the principle of the matter.

Suddenly the door swung open and Sherlock stepped through, not even glancing at John as he made his way to the wardrobe.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, hastily pulling the duvet over his naked body. "What the hell? I'm trying to wank here!"

"I know," Sherlock said, pulling open the doors to John's closet. "I need to borrow your green tie. It's for a case."

"The door was locked!"

"Yes, I have lockpicks."

John groaned and threw his head back in frustration.

"Enjoy your pointless sexual release," Sherlock said blandly as he left the room.

"Shut the door!" John called after him. "Bastard."


	8. Deductions

Title: Deductions  
Prompt: Lesbians  
Rating: T  
Wordcount: 221B

* * *

"There's our suspect! John, don't take your eyes from her!"

"Not so loud. And are you drunk?"

"Only a little."

"Right. Well she- oh. Oh. I wasn't expecting that."

"John, I told you not to stop looking at her!"

"She's kissing her girlfriend, Sherlock, you can't keep staring at her while she's doing that!"

"Why not?"

"Because she'll get uncomfortable and it looks weird."

"Well, she's certainly too busy to notice, and no one else in this club cares what we do. They're too busy having sex with their eyes and making themselves vomit due to excess alcohol consumption."

"It's the principle of the matter, Sherlock."

"You keep using that phrase, John, and I don't think it's a good excuse."

"It is, really."

"N-oh. I get it."

"Get what?"

"Why you can't watch them."

"I can watch them, I just don't want to."

"Watching lesbians kissing arouses you."

"What? No!"

"Liar."

"…Fine, alright, yes. Watching two girls make out is something I find slightly hot. Happy?"

"Very. But you can't look at them because the fact that they're lesbians reminds you of your sister, and thinking of her in a sexual manner makes you uncomfortable."

"What? No!"

"The facts speak for themselves."

"…I'm never bringing you to a nightclub again. And this is also the last time I buy you booze."


	9. Space Cake

Title: Space Cake  
Prompt: Sherlock accidentally eats space cake during an interrogation  
Rating: T  
Wordcount: 221B

"Sherlock, now that you're… not stoned, we need to talk about your network. Namely the dodgy drug addicts."

"My contacts are necessary to my work, John."

"Alright then, but at the very least we need to talk about who you accept food from."

"You're the one always saying I should eat more."

"Yes. Eat more food. Not more _space cake_."

"You can't be picky, John."

John let out a huff of frustration. "Aren't you even a little embarrassed?"

"Why should I be?"

"You told Lestrade he had a nice arse!"

"It was an accurate observation."

"You had a five minute talk with Anderson about bras!"

"I'm sure it was riveting. Unfortunately, I don't remember it."

"You kissed me!"

"You enjoyed it."

"It was in the middle of an _interrogation_, Sherlock."

"You still enjoyed it."

"That's not the point!"

"Honestly, John, I don't know why you're so worked up."

"You're lucky Lestrade didn't arrest you for being high!"

"My food was spiked. Not my fault."

John threw up his arms dramatically. "Really, Sherlock!" he exclaimed. "I give up. You're supposed to be a genius. Couldn't you tell what drugs it had in it from the consistency of mixture or something?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"How is recognising a hundred different types of tobacco more ridiculous than knowing what drugs are in your baking?"


	10. Hospital

Title: Hospital

Rating: K+

Wordcount: 221B

* * *

"You let him get away, Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled. The passing nurses glared and he lowered his voice. "What were you _thinking_?"

"I'm sure even your squad of bumbling buffoons can catch him," Sherlock said distractedly. The insult lacked the usual venom; he was too busy staring at the closed door to the ward.

"He's a mass murderer, Sherlock. He's a risk to civilians! Does human life mean nothing to you?"

_Just one_, Sherlock wanted to reply. _And he comes before anything else._ But he kept his mouth shut and continued to stare at the closed door.

Lestrade saw the direction of his gaze and sighed. "I get that John was injured. But he was _fine-"_

"I didn't know that," Sherlock cut him off. "I didn't know it was just a gunshot wound to his leg." _I thought it was much, much worse_, was what he didn't say.

"And you abandoned the chase?" Lestrade said, but his voice was no longer chastising. "Just like that?"

"Obviously," Sherlock said, not even glancing at the DI. "Otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation.

Lestrade fell silent as the door the ward opened and a doctor walked out. Beside him, Lestrade suspected Sherlock had stopped breathing. The doctor checked his clipboard. "Mr Holmes?" he asked. Sherlock nodded tersely.

"He'll be fine.

Sherlock released his breath.


	11. Goodbye

Title: Goodbye  
Rating: T  
Wordcount: 221B

"_If you were dying, if you were being murdered, in your last few seconds, what would you say?"_

Sherlock had asked him that, once. John answered "unimaginatively" apparently. And perhaps it had been, but Sherlock had put him on the spot. John had gone home and thought about it, and he decided he wanted to change his answer to "goodbye". Because now he had someone to say goodbye to.

He wouldn't try to get back at his murderer. As a corpse, justice would do him little good. He _would _say goodbye, regardless of the fact that Sherlock would disapprove of the wasted breath.

Sherlock had obviously disagreed; he'd given John his patented "I-can't-believe-a-person-can-possibly-be-that-stupid" look and then proceeded to explain what you _should _say in your last words. And he'd been right. He solved the case, and it turned out the woman _had _used her last few seconds to catch her killer.

But John had heard Sherlock's last words, and they hadn't been a plea for vengeance.

"_If you were dying, if you were being murdered, in your last few seconds, what would you say?"_

"_Goodbye, John."_

John didn't know what he was supposed to do with those words, but he did know that those words told him one definite thing.

Sherlock had never been as cold as he'd pretended to be.


	12. Deals With Demons

Title: Deals With Demons  
Rating: K+  
Wordcount: 221B  
A/N: If you don't watch Supernatural, you won't make much sense out of this chapter. I'm sorry to exclude you, but I couldn't resist putting this in.

He was desperate. So desperate. Desperate enough to try this. He didn't even think it would work. There's no way it _could_ work. He'd officially lost his marbles.

But he wanted Sherlock back so much.

He threw the burning match into the bowl, hoping against hope…

He wasn't surprised when nothing happened, but he was disappointed. Sighing in resignation, he pocketed the match box.

"John Watson, I believe." The voice came from behind him, and John whirled around in surprise. Before him stood a man in a well-tailored suit. "The name's Crowley. I take it you want to make a deal?"

He wasn't what John had expected, but he didn't mention it because it didn't really matter now. Nothing mattered except Sherlock.

"I want him back," John choked out.

Crowley shrugged. "I'd love to give him to you, pet," he said, examining the skull on the mantle. "Really I would. But I can't."

"Why not?" John demanded. "Ten years, then you get my soul. That's the deal."

"I know the deal," Crowley snapped. "But I can't give him back to you because he's not dead."

"What?" John whispered.

"Not only that," Crowley continued, "but I can't bring him to you. He's under the Winchester's protection. Apparently they need him."

"Who are the Winchesters?" John demanded.

"A pair of really annoying blockheads."


	13. Pigs

Title: Pigs  
Rating: K+  
Wordcount: 221B

When John returned to a flat that looked like a bomb had gone off in it, he just sighed. Because knowing Sherlock, that's exactly what had happened.

"Why is life so complicated?" he tiredly asked the skull that had, miraculously, remained undamaged. He picked it up and turned it over so that it was no longer upside down and proceeded to Sherlock's bedroom.

He found the consulting detective lying on his bed with his eyes closed. He looked peaceful, although John doubted he was sleeping.

"Sherlock, have you seen the flat?" he exclaimed. "What happened to it?"

"Go look in the bathroom," replied Sherlock, without even opening his eyes.

John did as Sherlock said, although before he did he went to his room to fetch his gun. There was probably a serial killer in there; there was no way in hell he was going into that room unarmed.

There wasn't a serial killer in the bathroom. What John did see upon opening the door was much, _much_ stranger.

"Sherlock, there are seven, fully grown pigs in the bathroom."

"Well observed, John."

"Why are there seven, fully grown pigs in the bathroom?"

"Anderson owns a farm just out of London. They're his pigs."

"Of course they are. And why did you steal Anderson's pigs?"

"He's an annoying idiot and I was bored."


End file.
